


Emboss the Dark

by AKA_47



Category: Wonder Woman (Movies - Jenkins), Wonder Woman - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:22:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28344588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AKA_47/pseuds/AKA_47
Summary: Diana is living a shadow of a life, full of love she will not give. Barbara is full of potential no one can see. When Barbara finds a way to harness Diana's powers to make her own dreams come true, what will it cost them both? Will Diana be strong enough to give up the vision of Steve and their lives together that Barbara's schemes produce? A rewrite (of sorts) of 1984.
Relationships: Diana (Wonder Woman)/Steve Trevor
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	Emboss the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Having just watched 1984, I wanted to give it a bit more depth and explore those relationships and the connections a bit more. The title is taken from the poem "Diana and the Hunt". People will eventually have dialogue, I swear. This chapter just sets up the idea. As always, please like and review if you enjoy! Happy holidays!

Diana had grown up in a world of color- of impossible, endless blue, deep golds and rich greens. She’d known women of strength and conviction, who had taught her the same, so that her principles could be even more deeply held than their own. And she’d known the love of her mother, the love of Antiope, the respect of the Amazons. She’d known too that there was more, that her talents and those of her people would one day be called upon, and that she would leave her home to save men she’d only ever heard or read about. Her world had been one of stories, but she thought she’d understood. She’d thought that she’d looked into the eyes of her mother and seen truth and purpose, a queen as perfect as Themyscira itself.

The Amazons were not men, who Diana had known were flawed, jealous, creatures. Yet, her mother had guarded her, kept her from the truth, raised her in falsehood and make-believe, pretending that when the time came they would fight when in reality they were hidden away, all of their energy and effort nothing more than an elaborate show. Yes, Hippolyta was flawed, though Diana had not seen it then, had not seen it until she’d loved someone herself, wanted to keep him, guard him, shield him. To love generally, she’d learned, as she loved all children and would come to love all men, was not the same as to cherish a single human, put your hopes and dreams into him.

Diana had been forged, a weapon of clay, full of power, but she’d been raised as a daughter, a sister, and so this weapon could love. Had to love. It was Ares as much as Steve who had taught her that this, too, was a strength, and live her mother, she would come to find that it was also a source of great sorrow. So, she’d learned a distant, detached sort of love in the decades since the war, one that let her protect, but shielded her from the closeness she knew would only lead to heartbreak. She’d managed to build the shield, to forge it not from clay, but from conviction, for all but the one she’d already given her heart to.

When she’d first come to Steve’s country, to the center of the government he had fought and lied for, it had looked just as monochrome as the streets of London had from her sailboat on the Thames, and Diana had morphed to fit it. Gone were the days when she’d tried to stand out, when she’d been so convinced of her own importance that she’d wanted her every action and every stitch of clothing to reflect her power. Her wardrobe reflected the city instead- greys and blacks and whites. She knew now, of course, that the people of D.C. in the 80s dressed in bright colors, blues, greens and golds as bold as any she had known on Themyscira, if synthetic. It brought her joy to see them, but she couldn’t join in. She was taking part in a life Steve had once woven out of words for her, a tale not so very different from the ones her mother had told, for they both showed Diana versions of a life she wanted. Her mother had told stories of battle to a little girl who had longed for nothing else, but the adult Diana had swayed against a man who saw her and valued her, the ravages of war all around them, and he’d talked of calm, of normalcy, of _endless days_ and she’d felt a longing in the pit of her stomach that outdid all of her childish yearnings.

They’d played at it for a moment, she and Steve. They’d closed their eyes for a moment and pretended that they could have each other, work and breakfast, and coming home to each other after boring, monotonous days. It was just another form of make-believe, and it shattered as completely as when the Germans had broken through the veil at Themyscira. She played at it now, decades later, surrounded by memories of him, going through the motions. She ate and she worked, cleaned and shopped, but her smile didn’t come as easily as it once had. It was alright though, there was no one to care, no one close enough to her to notice, or know her as he had.

Diana was a weapon. And a woman. She was lovely and exhausted. Kind and disillusioned. Alone. And with endless days stretched out before her that didn’t seem as appealing as they had on that winter’s night, when the snow had fallen into her hair and he had brushed it away. Her life was a mission now rather than a gift, and it wasn’t hers to have.

\--

The 80s were a time when women could finally be outspoken, when they could have careers and degrees and put themselves first. The possibilities were endless for young women, limitless potential coupled with brand new ideals. But Barbara was no longer a young woman, as her mother often reminded her. Now in her forties, this time of achievement and freedom was not her own. Far from having parents who pushed her into the corporate world and financial independence, she’d grown up alongside the nuclear family ideal. It was an ideal that had been realized on paper in the Minerva family, with her housewife mother and working class father, her hyper-masculine brother, and of course, Barbara herself. If her mother wanted more, if her father was overworked and unhappy, no one dared say a word.

Before Barbara was grown, while she was still moldable as clay, her mother had poked and prodded, dressed and posed, whispered the ideas of her generation into the little girl’s ear: opinions could be fostered in so far as they were sure to bring no opposition, disagreement was unladylike, and kindness to a fault was a virtue. It was alright to go to college if the aim was to find a husband. Barbara listened. She took mental notes. She’d always been a good student. She knew what the primped, subservient housewife looked like, she’d had plenty of time to study the subject. She played house and mothered her baby dolls. She organized many a Barbie wedding. She pretended to dream of the coveted white-picket fence as so many of her neighbors did. But all of the observation, all of the careful study backfired.

By middle school Barbara was interested in science. She preferred books to boys, and because she was no great beauty, such a fault couldn’t be overlooked. So, the boys, her friends, began to overlook her. If she thought her family would be any different, she was sadly mistaken. Her father saw a dowdy girl who would be his financial responsibility forever. Her brother was just another boy who could ignore her as easily as breathing, and her mother? Her mother threw her away like a broken doll. No longer moldable, no longer teachable, she couldn’t fulfill the ideal, she would never improve upon the foundation that her mother had built for her. Barbara had never meant to become invisible, but it was her one power. She blended in, she made no noise, she smiled at everyone and felt none of the joy it was supposed to bring.

If she’d thought that having a doctorate would give her back agency, give her potential, the ability to form a new dream, she was mistaken. She hadn’t been trained for freedom, for bold ideas boldly spoken. She was forgotten. Ignored. Exhausted with the charade. Alone. Her life was passing her by as though it wasn’t her own.

And then, like a burst of light in a colorless world, there was Diana. Effortless, beautiful, intelligent, perfect Diana. Oh, how her mother would have loved this vision of a woman who drew the eyes of every man she met yet seemed to see none of them. With a crook of her finger, Barbara was sure that Diana could summon anyone she wanted and bend them to her will. At least, Barbara was sure that she’d do anything for Diana, in that moment when the woman saw her, helped her. She was power personified, but also femininity, everything Barbara had always wanted.

Barbara had thought she knew what to expect of the woman. She’d spent years reading up on her, or the idea of her, after all. So long that she’d almost begun to believe that she wasn’t real, even after she’d learned of Diana Prince working at the Smithsonian, even after she’d dug up the picture of the otherworldly woman standing in the middle of a war-torn strip of land. The same woman. It was impossible, but it was true.

And if Barbara felt bad about what she must do, it was only for a moment, because Diana walked away. For all her kindness, it was just as superficial. A beautiful mask. This woman would never be her friend, not really. And Barbara deserved _something,_ even just a _slice_ of what Diana had so effortlessly attained.

A God Killer. A being more powerful than any other on this earth. Power enough to fulfill the dreams of one woman, or 200 more like her. Power that could be drained, could be used for people like Barbara, who yearned and yearned, but for whom the world would never give a second glance.

It was time to change all that.


End file.
